Death is a Gambler: The McKay Family Saga, #3

By J.C. Graves

The gambler has plans involving a gold mine, a railroad, and a hotel, all swirling around blackmail, bribery and murder. U.S. Marshal Henry McKay is tasked to investigate a stage robbery and murders, while his older brother, James, leads one of the first cattle drives from Texas to Denver, Colorado. Intrigue and betrayal follow as the drovers battle the elements, Indians, rustlers, and a giant, prehistoric bear. When they get to Denver, their troubles are not over—no, they just fell from the proverbial frying pan into the fire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Summit Bay Press, Olympia WA
• Release date: Oct 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393867784

J.C. Graves

I would describe myself as a lifelong learner. From my earliest memories, I have been filled with an insatiable curiosity about what things are, how and why they work, and the nuances of relationships. Because of that, my interests are wide and varied. I love to write and always have a book going. In this way, I am able to share—in story form—much of what I have discovered about the world.

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Summit Bay Press, Olympia WA

PREFACE

In early 1864, when a Union patrol attacked the McKay farm in Asheville, North Carolina, killing everyone on suspicion of either being bushwhackers or aiding bushwhackers, four young men became a scourge of the war: Death is a Sharpshooter—The McKay Family Saga—Book One. As trained sharpshooters—what we would call snipers—attempts by Union and Confederate soldiers to steal food, animals and people in western North Carolina were often met with violent and sudden death. Despite many attempts to capture and kill the young men, they survived until the end of the war in April of 1865. Because of their exceptional string of kills, particularly against officers, the Union Army put a bounty on their heads of $10,000 each, which they kept in effect although the war had ended.

In order to survive, they fled to a new life and new beginning in Texas with the Union Army in close pursuit in Death is a Vengeance—The McKay Family Saga—Book Two. After three months, they arrived in New Braunfels, Texas on August 1st, 1865. Although the Union troopers finally caught up with them that morning, Sergeant Major O’Kurle retired the same day, and the troopers abandoned their vengeful captain to his own devices, which meant he went away—temporarily. During August and September, the rangers purchased land from Robert’s grandfather, Don Pedro, and settled into the chores of building their relationships, property, and country.

CHAPTER ONE

The gambler dealt the cards swiftly. He had been carefully and methodically fleecing the table for ten hours straight, and he felt bone tired. The Galveston waterfront offered mostly merchants and naval seamen, farmers, and various dock workers, and his victims entered and left the ongoing game. They made enough to stay interested, but not get ahead.

He always dressed impeccably, as both a nod to his vanity and a sign of his prosperity. He knew what he was doing and could easily cheat. But these gents were destined to lose their money, because the cards they held were reflected in their bland faces, as if made of mirror. He didn’t even have to try hard. After five days he had cleared one thousand dollars and considered drifting over to Houston, before he wore out his welcome.

His five opponents played with various levels of skill. The farmer across the table frowned deeply, as he picked up each card as it was dealt. He had learned to play poker with his cousin back at the cabin. Based on their success around the kitchen table, they had decided to come into town and quickly double or triple their meager savings.

Over a three-hour period, the five players did not learn anything except how to lose. Cecil Biggs left the table flat broke, but stood behind his cousin Chester, unashamedly coaching his play. Chester kept three cards and tossed two at the dealer.

The gambler dealt Chester two cards and watched his eyes light up. Chester smiled and eagerly showed his hand to Biggs.

The gambler shook his head imperceptibly and drew one card for himself. The two dock workers folded and left the table.

The betting was fierce, because Chester wanted to get all his money back, and Biggs’, if possible. The two seamen folded but stayed, watching the exchange. Now it was the gambler and Chester.

The gambler thought, odds were Chester had three of a kind, or maybe even a full house—three of a kind and two of a kind. He tapped his cards on the table and thought for a second. Should he fold and keep Chester on the string or finish him off? He glanced at the Seth Thomas clock over the bar mirror—3 am. No, he would go for the throat. He called.

Chester tipped back his dirty, sweat-stained hat and proudly laid out a full house—jacks and nines. The two observers smiled.

The gambler also smiled—inside, but not his stony face. He paused for a count of five. Chester reached forward with both arms to pull in the winnings, as the gambler laid out his cards. Well gents, that’s it for me tonight, he announced, sitting back. Chester froze and looked up at Biggs.

Four of a kind? Biggs said to no one. Queens.

Both observers giggled. One seaman slapped the table. Well done, sir.

The gambler scooped up the cards, staring at Biggs without a hint of emotion. But his head lowered slightly, so his eyes took on an ominous, deadly aspect under the brim of his hat.

Biggs growled, Four of a kind—I don’t think so. Biggs’ face turned beet red. We had you! We had you! You’ve been cheatin’.

Off to the right, the bartender stopped cleaning the counter in mid-motion.

The gambler stiffened inside. He always knew where the queens were in the deck, but they had come unbidden. He held the deck in his left hand and let his right hand drop casually from the table. The two seamen observers stood suddenly and left the saloon.

Hey mister gambler, sir, Chester said, leaning forward, didn’t you hear what Biggs said? He said you was a cheatin’ mangy dog. We want our money back, plain and simple.

The old bartender leaned his elbows on the bar counter and watched intently.

The gambler had little patience for sore losers and cared even less for threats. His eyes stared through them, as he performed a swift triple cut of the deck with only his left hand.

See! Biggs shouted and skipped back a step, pointing the accusing finger. He’s a card hustler, he is! Stole all our money and we want it back—right—now.

Ain’t goin’ to happen, the gambler snarled. The game was played fair and square. Why don’t you boys...

Chester jumped up, chair flying. The bartender grinned knowingly and shook his head. For a few seconds nothing happened, then Chester and Biggs both grabbed their pistols.

Two shots rang out in quick succession. Blue-white smoke curled through the air.

The bartender came around the end of the bar and studied the two men on the floor. If’n I was you, I’d leave now. He looked from the dead men to the gambler. Sheriff’s out of town and the deputy is a dunce.

The gambler stood, dropping the Derringer into the specially made vest pocket designed to hold it. He studied the men and sighed. Sounds like good advice, Jeff. He flipped the bartender a Liberty Head twenty-dollar gold coin and walked out the door.

THE THROW WAS GOOD—THE loop wide and mostly accurate, but the descendent of Andalusian ancestry flinched away, ducked, and trotted off into the thicket. James shook his head, grinning to himself. How could a creature with over ten-foot-wide horns run through the brush? And with the brush over twelve feet tall in places. How was he supposed to rope something like that? He gathered in the lariat and looked at Robert, whose right eyebrow arched up suspiciously. He leaned over the saddle horn, arms folded, chewing a length of sweet grass.

Don’t say a word, James warned.

Robert held up his hands. Just takes practice. He turned his dun horse away, muttering, For some folks, lots and lots—and lots of practice. He heard the twirl of the lariat over James’ head and flicked his spurs into the dun’s flanks. The stallion leapt forward like a gazelle and the loop fell short. He barked a laugh, not bothering to look back.

James watched Robert trot away. The November days were warm, but in the thicket, it felt like an oven. James shielded his eyes with his right hand, looking at the sun—just past noon. He studied the wall of brush in front of him and urged his mount forward. He wanted that bull.

Over the last few months, they had gathered over one thousand longhorns. Robert, his grandfather, Don Pedro, and James decided together that they should gather more than three thousand for the drive to Colorado in the early spring. James thought he knew how to rope until they came to Texas. Roping on the open range and in dense thickets, required different techniques, but through relentless practice and hard work, he could hold his own with the outfit.

Unfortunately, he had to give up Gypsy, his beloved mare, who had been with him through the thick and thin of the Civil War and the road to Texas. She was a good traveler, but not spunky enough for roping. Besides, Texas cowhands did not ride mares, and that’s all there was to it. His status as a leader would diminish significantly if he rode the mare in the gathering. So, Gypsy became the dependable buggy horse for his wife, Margaret, whom everyone called Peggy or Peg.

Something rustled in the thicket behind him and he reined his horse around. The bull grunted a brief warning and charged. With head lowered, the massive beast plowed into his gelding and they went down in a cloud of choking dust. As they were toppling over, James pulled his left foot out of the stirrup, so he stepped onto the ground as the horse crashed onto its left side. But he still had to contend with the bull, whose red eyes blazed with hatred for the annoying pest. Without slowing, the two-thousand-pound beast nosed the horse over onto its back then trampled over the thrashing legs, snorting fiercely to reach James, who kept backing up.

Although very undignified, James turned and ran for his life, twisting and turning through the brush, thankful no one witnessed his humiliation at the renegade bull. The bull gave up, angrily snorting and pawing the ground. James cautiously worked his way back to his horse, which stood, trembling.

You okay, buddy? he asked, stroking the nose and neck. The horse shook its body, dirt and dust flying everywhere. He led the horse out of the thicket and down to the stream, and sat on a rock, studying the countryside. The horse drank and munched on the short grass. Two vaqueros flew by, chasing two cows and calves. One laughed and waved—José. James waved back.

José was by far the best roper in the outfit, demonstrating his incredible skills at every opportunity. He could rope any critter’s foot, any two feet—front or back, and any neck, no matter how wide the horns. On more than one occasion, he threw a figure eight at a calf and roped all four feet. But his specialty was roping grizzlies and wolves. Just the week before, James watched him rope a coyote. He dragged the struggling creature back to camp, and the caballeros set up games to bet on before letting it go.

Don Pedro kept a brown and white speckled longhorn steer at the hacienda the children rode with a saddle. He marveled at the difference between the pet that grew up with the family, and the wild, rangy longhorns. Different animals completely. While the pet was gentle and meek as a lamb, these miserable beasts were wild, dangerous, crazy smart, and always unpredictable. Which actually meant fun to hunt and rope.

That’s enough, he announced, standing up. They worked their way back into the thicket, but the bull was gone—or hiding, which kept him on high alert. He found a cow with two calves and chased them to the box canyon where they were gathering some of the cattle.

In late afternoon, after ten hours in the saddle, he pulled up at the chuck wagon. His younger brother, Henry, met him with a cup of hot coffee. The fall days were warm, but the evening cold set in early. The cook, old Ortega, built burritos and stirred a great iron pot of his famous spicy chili con carne, the sweet smells making everyone’s mouth water.

They gathered at the fire, standing around or squatting in their high-heeled boots. The gringos drank coffee while the vaqueros smoked their little cigarillos, a habit some of the gringo cowherders were adopting. Belton Finch, the Kentucky Confederate soldier, carried a pouch of Genuine Bull Durham Smoking Tobacco and smoked a cigarillo after supper each evening.

Gideon went back to the hacienda to fix a broken axle, Henry said. Josiah is leaving the roundup tomorrow afternoon, so he can finish getting ready for the Sunday church service.

As they were talking, Josiah rode in. He turned his horse loose with the remuda and plopped his saddle down next to James’ bedroll. Henry handed him a cup of fresh coffee, hot off the fire. Just before leaving North Carolina, Josiah had been ordained in the local Episcopal church. But his church service in New Braunfels, Texas, was non-denominational. Although they had been in Texas only three months, he had a flock of fifteen people: seven black people like himself, six Mexicans, and two Chinese. During the war, Josiah carried a new Enfield and spotted for Henry. They were a deadly pair, but Josiah could also shoot a fat tick off a bull’s rump at two hundred yards.

How did you do today? James asked.

You know that overgrown thicket down by the creek, the one with the dead oak tree on the termite mound?

Yeah, I was down there about noon.

Well, I came across this big ole mossy back, one of the biggest I’ve seen lately, horns maybe ten feet tip-to-tip. I sort of surprised him by coming around that tree unawares. I couldn’t herd him toward the canyon, so I threw a loop over his head and one of his horns. Well, that old boy took me for a ride. My horse dug his heels in, but we could barely slow the beast. Finally, José and Raul came charging up. José heeled him, and Raul pulled his tail, tipping him over. Mostly took the fight out of him. After that, the three of us ran the big boy up to the canyon and turned him loose with the others.

James stood and ceremoniously doffed his hat and bowed with flourishes. I take my hat off to you, my friend. Where I tried and failed miserably with yon El Diablo, you succeeded wonderfully. I might just go over to the canyon this evening and look up that old devil bull. You know, sort of gloat and make fun of his new situation. James sat back down.

Before you get too sentimental, remember, I had some help. And I caught him out in the open. He knew how James worked the thicket at least twice a week.

Henry put his hand on James’ shoulder. We don’t hunt the thicket like you—too dangerous.

"Sure, but it is my work there that allows you to catch them outside the thicket."

Josiah grinned to Henry. He does have a point.

A weak one, but a point.

José took a plate from Ortega and sat down—a huge bean and beef burrito covered in the old cook’s flaming hot chili. Saw a cat behind the canyon today, José said, chewing. Big one. His accent was thick, but his English perfect—Catholic school at the Don Pedro hacienda.

Stalkin’ the calves, Robert said, squatting by the fire with his plate. He had three-inch heels on his boots, so squatting was easy and natural. But he had to be careful not to get too close: the rivets holding the pants together in the crotch could get smoking hot without the wearer knowing it, so when he stood...well, a severe burn could ruin his day.

José nodded. Sí, I think so.

With the old bull there now, the cougar had better think twice, Josiah said.

Robert looked up, chewing. Not what I’m worried about. The cat could get’m runnin’ toward that flimsy thing we built across the canyon, what we call a fence—would fly right through it, I’m thinkin’.

We need to clean out the spring, too, Henry added. If the cattle keep tramping it down, there won’t be enough water flowing to fill a canteen.

How many in there now? Robert asked.

A